PROLOGUE

Nearly 4000 words for a casual newsletter! Am I spending too long on these monthly musings? Am I writing too much reflection and too few new scripts? Well… you can at least let me know with regards to the former.

I’m currently hosting a succession of events similar to my Hot Chocolate Walk ‘n’ Talks, this summer series bearing the title “Frozen Treat Meet ‘n’ Greet Hit the Street.”

Attendance for the Frozen Treat Events has been low. I anticipated a slow start—the first couple hot chocolate walks had one participant each—but even after the fifth one, each so far has not had more than a single attendant aside from myself. It’s an alien concept to me, as a part-time afterschool teacher, but it turns out that summer is a busy few months for people.

But this prelude isn’t about event turnout. You see, on my way downtown recently for FTMnGHtS #4, I received a succession of texts that made it clear I was going to be the only person in attendance.

“Huh,” I thought, “well, that makes introductions easier.”

I was disappointed that my friends didn’t end up attending, but I was pleased to have the opportunity to walk at my own pace, and I certainly wasn’t going to withhold ice cream from myself just because of some cancellations. In fact, I mused, this gives me the opportunity to go off-script—to attend an ice cream place I’ve never tried before that didn’t even show up on the official FTMnG schedule.

That’s how I found myself at a gelateria on Prince Street right next door to the bakery that, poetically enough, inspired the Hot Choc Walk ‘n’ Talks.

When I arrived at this spot, the line was out the door. Go figure—it’s a new place in collegetown that had made its rounds as a feature on a heavily-trafficked Instagram account. Could always get mochi instead, I thought. Hell, I could have gone back to Salt and Straw, my original destination. I had a whole evening ahead of me, though, and something new to try. Besides, the line was moving fast. I was gonna get me some gelato.

As I zipped through the queue, I heard snippets of conversation from the other patrons, commentaries on, indeed, the Instagram rec, as well as on the gelato itself—mostly positive, some petulantly negative in the manner that suggested pickiness or poor taste. I was primed for some ice cream.

The usual set of choices presented itself to me as I approached the friendly gelato scooper. Flavor? Size/cost? Fixings? The first decision was relatively easy for me—two items on the menu stood out fairly quickly, a white chocolate-and-hazelnut variety and a dark chocolate with hazelnut and pistachio. There were a lot of hazelnuts on the menu.

The second choice was more difficult: the choice of, “How much?”

That choice of “how much ice cream do I acquire?” is actually a relatively trivial one from a price perspective. As long as a person has the funds allocated for ice cream in the first place—not a given, I understand—the difference between how many scoops one gets is a matter of usually no more than a dollar or so (the economics of ice cream is a point of curiosity for me). This, I think, is something of a curse. “How much ice cream do I ask for” would be a much easier question if one scoop was five dollars and two scoops were ten. At this particular spot, I was going to be paying a little over ten dollars, after tax, regardless of what I got; trendy SoHo gelato spots, unfortunately, see significant prices as a product of inflated demand… not that I am blind to my own contribution to that demand.

In New England, the decision is facilitated by lower costs and portion sizes that evoke a sort of dread awe. The cows responsible for the ice cream eye you taking in those lactose-laden mountains as they graze behind rustic wooden fences, as if to say, “Yeah, hot shot? Dare you to finish that. It’ll kill you, and I’ll just stand here eating my grass.” At Kimball Farm, for example, a Mini will net you a handful of ice cream, a Kiddie will provide you a sizable bowl, a Small will happily serve as a meal in itself, a Medium does not exist, and a Large will send you to the hospital—and all for reasonable prices, and at a higher quality than I have yet to find outside the region. Growing up in New England did, indeed, make me an ice cream snob.

The choices are different at a gelateria, with their high price point and considerably more European portion sizes. Not to mention, I was trying something new, something highly-recommended. Wouldn’t I want to have a little more for my money’s worth, given that?

I had counseled myself before I entered the establishment that I would get a Small, get a split-scoop so as to yet sample multiple flavors, and be content to go back if I enjoyed my treat. When the winsome gelato scooper asked me what I wanted, though, I caved. I had seen the other patrons of this place seated with their dainty cups of ice cream. In my mind, I measured the modest artisanal scooplets against the rolling hills of dairy I had grown up around years ago, and my resolve to be moderate wavered.

I walked out of the gelateria with probably a New England-Kiddie’s-worth of gelato for a Large’s price, as well as a tiny plastic spoon—more of a little rectangular card, really—that was doubtless sized to force patrons to savor every little bite of the frozen treat. I love the sentiment.

The gelato itself was phenomenal—rich, silky, and creamy, with nuanced flavors. Beyond the textural qualities, though, there was a much deeper joy that the gelato inspired in me.

In New England, there is an iconic frozen dairy treat known as the Hoodsie Cup. These little cylinders of joy were—are still, apparently—produced en masse in little pods and passed out at birthdays, cookouts, and cafeterias alike; in discussing them recently with my cousin, we determined that the more dented-up and covered by wet grass a Hoodsie Cup is, the more a genuine article it is.

You should know that Hoodsie Cups are dairy propaganda for HP Hood LLC, a company based right out of Massachusetts. Adults are intended to buy a bag of cups and think, “Huh! Why, I oughta grab some of their milk while I’m at it,” while children’s begging instincts are supposed to be activated in the grocery aisles by memories of the sweet treats—“Mooom! Can we get the milk that’s the same as the ice cream cups?”

It works great. I can detail a full five-senses reverie in my mind of grabbing a papery white cup on a rowdy summer day, plasticky-wet tang of the slip’n’slide filling my nostrils, blades of grass clinging to my wet fingers—digits yet to develop their calluses—and tickling my ankles as I pull the tab on the cup and reveal a perfect yin-yang of chocolate and vanilla ice cream; friend is babbling about something in one ear but I’m already taking the little wooden spade each Hoodsie is packed with and digging into the soft, foamy cream, scooping light and dark into my mouth all at once, a simple sweetness on one side and juuust enough of a cocoa warmth on the other to classify as “chocolate”…

Ahhh, youth. And, to bring it back around to the gelato, exactly what was evoked for me on that balmy, pink New York evening. Quite by accident, I had recreated for myself some artisanal rendition of a childhood classic, found myself transported through space and time.

I tried to eat it slowly. Not wanting to sit around—despite its lack of other attendants, this was still a Frozen Treat Hit the Street event—I took it on the go after having gotten the melty bits under control, walking west along Spring Street and eventually up Hudson. At one point a passerby asked me “where’d you get the ice cream?” and I felt a twinge at the fact that I’d gotten the frozen treat at a buzzy place popularized by social media and likely charging far beyond what any ordinary ice cream-seeker might feel is reasonable (though this was Manhattan). I even experienced some selfish protectiveness of my own gelato: why was he asking about my melting milk product? Did he covet my ‘cream?

Still, I pointed him towards the gelateria, and by the time I’d made it past another exhaust-choked avenue, I found my gelato had disappeared.

There was a moment where I did the old “scrape the sides of the cup, there must be some more left that can go in my mouth” maneuver. After that, though, it was just me and the empty vessel: “Alas, poor gelato! I knew it well.” It had held a memory, and now it was so much refuse, a little cardboard burden. I located a trash can.

While I had been contemplating the cup, I found myself wishing I had eaten it more slowly, savored every bite. Once I had emptied my hands of it, though, I had another realization—no matter whether I had ordered a small or a large, no matter whether I had wolfed the gelato down or luxuriated over each tiny morsel, no matter whether I had paid one dollar or one-hundred, I was still going to find myself where I was now, twenty minutes later, alone with my thoughts, the same flavors having fallen over my tongue, the same textures and aromas having melted upon my senses and passed into memory. 

And so shall it be for all things.

As a theatre artist, I’m in the industry of ephemera. A show will have its production, and then it will inevitably end. As a writer and screenwriter, though, I like to think I etch my words upon the stones, that the Internet or some other archive will hold the products of my heart eternally in its unknowable fathoms.

It won’t, though. At least not forever. It’s a lesson I’ve learned a thousand times, in books and TV and movies and even in exceedingly earnest video games. And yet, I guess it never truly hit me until I found myself standing in Hudson Square, having travelled twenty years, hundreds of miles, and back again, empty cup of gelato in my hand.

I think food has a special way of crystallizing memories. Ultimately, I think those memories are about the people.

Ice cream: a farmstand field in sunset with Ryan. An invigorating conversation with two friends an air-conditioned pickup. A favorite spot shown joyfully to an out-of-towner former girlfriend. A woven canopy amidst twinkling fireflies with a new friend. Birthdays, family, celebrations innumerable. Such a quilt of love.

What a gift these recollections are.

The melted remains of my gelato clung to my hands. I looked around, wiped my fingers, and called my parents.

ART

I think The Bear is getting lost in the sauce.
Yes, that was just the Prologue. Summer has seen me underemployed. Anyone hiring writers?

SPOILERS AHEAD for all of The Bear on Hulu’s FX.

I started watching The Bear after having avoided it because it was popular; I believe I’ve previously mentioned this sort of aversion of mine. I was always curious about the discussions around it, though—a show about chefs that's marketed as a comedy but has all the stress of a drama. More on that in the April 2025 newsletter, by the way.

I talked glowingly of The Bear in the aforementioned issue a few months ago, right as I was on the verge of watching the third season…

…And I've been disappointed with the show since seeing that and the most recent season, number four.

So what went wrong?

I had difficulty deciding whether this should be an Art conversation or a Craft conversation. In talking about a work of art I enjoyed, am I discussing more the elements of its form, or the techniques by which those elements have been rendered? Please keep in mind, as well, that I don’t intend this as a rigorous or decisive criticism of the show at large—I’m a few months removed from my experience of the first few seasons and didn’t go through the procedure of rewatching and taking notes before writing about it here. I’m doing this for fun, not rigor.

The Bear started out with a unique premise and goals. It channeled an understanding and love of the restaurant industry into a family drama where characters’ psyches could be examined in how they engaged with their craft and how they engaged with each other in a naturally high-stress environment. It had purpose: Action: will Carmy create community within this place he was estranged from? Theme—will he and others recover from the loss of his brother? Will Syd create purpose and acceptance for herself in this new space? Will the dream of these characters creating The Bear become a reality? Will they make phenomenal food?

Season Three picked up directly after the harrowing finale of season two, when Carmy, the arguable protagonist, crashed and burned from a locked walk-in freezer on his titular restaurant’s opening night. The rest of the season follows the team over the course of a month, where poor communication and prickly perfectionism on Carmy’s part nearly run the team into the ground.

Much of the point of the poor communication is that it’s a preventable product of Carmy’s own dysfunctional upbringing, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating. The show also feels like it begins to lose the thread of “this is what it takes to make a restaurant work” and “this is the journey people undertake to make great food” amidst all the navel-gazing.

But that was season three! Was season four to be different?

Well…

As another disclaimer, I avoided reading any reviews on season four before watching it or writing this critique in its entirety, though the temptation was overwhelming—I love reading thoughtful analyses on art.

The Bear’s fourth season sort of felt, on the opposite end of the spectrum from season 3, like it was indulging in its character's newfound desire to express themselves and heal. Characters will have heartfelt monologues and maudlin admissions of wrongdoing and desire to do better, moments that end up feeling rather scripted. Especially scripted are other moments that feel much too much like performativity and not nearly enough like actual exchange taking place between the characters. 

One moment retreads a culinary TV bit from a previous season, this time with Sydney as its subject instead of Carmy. It's dramatically useful to illustrate Sydney falling prey to the same anxieties as her mentor, but it doesn't feel like anything new.

Another moment sees what should be a cathartic release between Carmy and Claire, a nurse and his ex, become simply a shouting match, with the two characters yelling over each other. Now, this is serviceable if it's being used to illustrate the way in which two characters are expressing themselves to each other without actually being heard, but it’s less compelling as it currently appears—as if the writers wanted to increase the stakes of the moment simply by having the characters shouting in each others’ faces.

There's a bit at a wedding that, while sweet in a way, eventually just sees all the lead and supporting cast under a table admitting what they're afraid of—to a young girl, but not really to a young girl as much as to each other. It just feels like a device. Like a writer put an interesting idea on paper instead of actually shaping it into a compelling series of events. “Wouldn’t it be fun if this happened?”

And with regards to that series of events, The Bear put itself in an awkward position given the lead ensemble already got their damning mixed debut review from local food critics. Last season, the feeling was sort of “we're done for if we don't get this good review”; now, it feels like “we're done for if we don't… get better reviews”? “Make more money”?

Really, nothing really feels as if it's changed from season three except the characters are saying more things that they should have been saying previously. Don’t get me wrong—pop culture is invaluable for how it provides us social scripts we may use as a model for our own relations. That said, these scripts are more palatable when they don’t feel like a team that did well in their early seasons patting themselves on the back.

The show also fails to address the elitism present in a restaurant saying “our business is in taking care of people” while charging a simply exorbitant amount of money. Season 4 features a subplot about the striking success of the show’s legacy beef sandwich shop, but doesn’t really explore the dichotomy between the “Cuisine” of the titular restaurant and the actual accessible, neighborhood-serving “Food” of the original establishment. 

I have every intention of indulging in fine dining someday, once I can afford to. I won’t, however, make the mistake of thinking the experience is all about me being “taken care of”—I’ll be forking over six months’ savings for a luxury. What value do the writers of The Bear want to deliver for their audience of ordinary TV viewers, now that the show is beginning to rest on its laurels? They dished out entertainment akin to fine dining in the first few seasons; now that the show is floundering in its focus on haute cuisine, can they deliver something that can be returned to like the simple pleasure of an Italian hot beef?

CRAFT

Chocolate chip cookies and the pursuit of joy

A while back, I stumbled upon a podcast called The Recipe with Kenji and Deb. My guess is, it emerged in my feed algorithmically as a product of my interest in The Bear and my excitement at having access to the NYC food scene.

The whole shtick of The Recipe is that there are two professional recipe developers going back and forth comparing their notes on food prep. Deb often takes a practical, functional approach, while Kenji brings a rigorous scientific perspective—she’s a savvy food blogger, he’s an MIT grad (in architecture, apparently). A product of these varied viewpoints is a nuanced understanding of what goes into a recipe and what various factors and ingredients affect a variety of foods.

Different episodes of this audio show focus on different dishes—one in-particular was about pancakes. I was wowed by this episode because it illuminated to me the specific impact of various ingredients and proportions a given recipe. I was astonished by the scientific rigor by which we may ascribe pancake loft to baking soda and baking powder, the effect of the ratio of flour to sugar to eggs on texture and consistency. 

The Recipe sparked a serious interest in baking in-particular for me. It’s currently my preferred medium for food creativity; I’m a methodical person, and baking’s appeal is that if I know what each component of a recipe does, I will be able to control the outcome of my efforts with consistency.

Around the same time as my explorations into The Recipe’s catalogue, I had been engaging with Peak Cookie a bit after examining some r/foodnyc threads as to who makes the best one. One member of the subreddit had pointed out that bakeries serve as an excellent way to engage with master culinarists at an affordable price point; a bakery is a place where chefs and bakers are often operating at the top of their game in terms of creativity and quality, but in a way which is less financially taxing than running a full-service restaurant (Is there some theme developing in this newsletter? Something to do with food and money and intangibles?).

In my quest for the best cookie, I went with classic New York chocolate chip treats. I tried places such as Levain, with its cookies so big they could inflict a devastating head injury if dropped on someone, and then Culture Espresso. 

The former’s cookies are delicious. The latter’s are transcendent. Eating a Culture Espresso cookie, one bites through buttery layers of cookie with an oh-so-satisfying crumble into pools of chocolate that ooze decadent sweetness and just a hint of complex bitterness. Just like when I first drank the hot chocolate of Dominique Ansel, I was transformed. I guess if I were a caterpillar, I would munch my way through chocolate bars to prepare for metamorphosis, rather than plants (or maybe cacao leaves would suffice).

The Recipe with Kenji and Deb, and Culture Espresso in particular, inspired me to develop my own chocolate chip cookie recipe. After all, the burden for me to have delicious baked goods can't rest entirely on my mother and grandmother, extraordinary as their baking may be.

I liken my search for cookie greatness to climbing a mountain to reach the wizened guru at the peak. I went to various websites to trawl for my favorite cookies recipes, including Serious Eats, which has a scientific perspective on cookies—Kenji is one of the prominent writers there. I surveyed my mum for her family recipe, only to learn that those classic delicious cookies of hers were right off the back of a Ghirardelli bag. 

Once I overcame my initial shock of that discovery, I was struck by an appreciation of her rationality. Function is more important than style for a busy mother.

Using the scientific knowledge imparted to me by Serious Eats and The Recipe, I synthesized all these recipes into what I anticipated would be Michael's Ideal Cookie. Flour blanketed the paper towels I had cleverly layered over the countertop. Broken eggshells lay discarded in the trash. My arms ached with the exertion of creaming the batter by hand using the paddle gifted to me by my grandmother. The dough was ready.

I first tested the recipe on a small party of board game night guests—Cookies and Catan, I called it. Just as we were settling into a bracing game of strategy and diplomatic intrigue, I foisted the fresh cookies upon my friends, demanding feedback.

I got my feedback… which turned out to be, to my joy, overwhelmingly positive. “Perfect crumb,” “More chocolate,” “More walnuts,” were the things I heard—which indicated to me that my efforts had paid off.

I adjusted the recipe and tested it again on another board game night (“more walnuts!”); and on my coworkers (“more chocolate!”); and finally on family and friends while visiting home, using a stand mixer for the first time in the recipe’s history—I’m worried I overmixed, but the feedback to this set was perhaps the most positive of all.

In hearing this feedback, I was moved: people love this thing that I made that reflects my efforts. Not only that, I get to talk about the process with other bakers (Art and Craft February 2025, “The joy of being a connoisseur”).

I respect people who requisition a box of brownie mix ahead of a party or pull the cupcake recipe from the back of the jar of sprinkles—I count myself among them. I also take pride in the fact that, when I want to make something for people to savor and enjoy, I can pour my energies into a result that represents my preferences, my approach, and the unique experiences of mine which have shaped both of those. 

Our history lives within our craft. It is the opportunity to multiply our efforts and extend our experiences to others by creating something to be shared. Isn't that the gift of art? 

—

Michael

PS:
I have not tested nearly as exhaustively as Kenji and Deb, but I was fortunate enough to land pretty early on a formula I really enjoy. Development could probably be pushed further if I was struck again by the obsession… but I think this recipe is really good. Here it is, dear readers.